Happy Ending
by slothqueen
Summary: During the Eclipse, Griffith makes decision we'd all admire, and his certain daydream comes true...
1. Chapter 1

Another story proving my lack of short-writing abilities :P Therefore - two parts foreseen.

PS. Inspirowane "Nim wstanie dzień" Fettinga - ciekawostka dla mych współbratymców :P

* * *

- _This is who you are – _told the cold voice from above_ – so make thy choice, and sacrifice everything you used to love to the brightest thing upon the horizon now. Pile bodies of thy former allies. They love you. They'll be grateful for such an honor. _

Griffith bowed his head, and took a look of his broken arms, and the behelit tangled around them. He wasn't feel like it was real. Nothing was real since Pippin brought him out of the tower; his body, his people, all this escape from Midland was only a feverish dream. "If so" he thought "why not. Why not to try, if everything became that… wrong. I'm dreaming anyway. It's only a nightmare, all only a horrible dream. I must wake up. However!"

He lifted the behelit with an effort, and opened his mouth. He knew that it won't be able to speak anymore, however he had to find some way to speak out the words of curse… To back to reality…

- GRIFFITH! – his body frozen as he heard the desperate calling. He turned his head, and saw hunched, bloodcovered frame of his raider's captain, swaying from exertion, breathing heavily and wielding the short knife, pointed at four demons. His eyes, focused on them, were burning like torches.

- Griffith, hold on, I'll get you out of here – Griffith felt Guts' arm embracing him, and lifting his own numbed, deaden body up like a ragdoll. Guts' flesh was hot against him, wet with sweat and black blood from the giant hand they were standing on. Griffith recall many moments on his former battlefields, which were similar to this; Guts protecting him from fall, they both supporting each other with their last strengths. Griffith felt his breath, his pulse beating like maddened, his wild anger and will to protect him. And felt, how cruelly real this moment was.

- _What are thy willing, kindred? _– asked the highest demon once more – _Are you still heading for a castle? Are you already decided to do a final step?_

Griffith raised his head, and looked at four dark silhouettes under the red sky. He felt sudden tide of dread. "The castle… The dream… I fed them with so many lives, of my enemies and friends, and with my own also. Now I'm just at the door… and edge of moat as well. I can see it, with my waking eyes, it's shining right up on that hill on the horizon… But… there's something pulling my sight away continually" – he realized the touch of Guts' skin on his owns. It was definitely the most real thing now. He felt hot streams on his face, and the salty taste on lips – "It's… this man! Now, when he's supporting me… when I feel his warmth, his breath, I remember our days together… I can't see the castle. He could churn it up with one glimpse. It's him I had right before my eyes for all this time in darkness. I survived on waiting for him, because I knew that he's going to get me out. When he's supporting me, I forget all these horrible things I did. I don't want… I can't… Do this to him. No. I won't!"

Four demons looked indifferently as the small being they used to call "kindred", shake his head weakly.

- _So you won't sacrifice thy people?_

"NO, NO, NO!" – Griffith was repeating the word desperately in mind, like he was worried that it could be taken wrong – "NO GUTS! NOT HIM! I WON'T! NO!"

- _If you wish… - _the world around trembled, and the black sun burst with red flames. All of the demonic faces under them raised a hue and cry, and giant hand started to crumble under their feet. Guts' arm strengthen the grip around Griffith's waist.

- _According to thy wish, we let all of these lambs free. Remember though, that our sanctified children are still here… Waiting for their feast. And we shall not refuse them the banquet._

- Don't listen – Guts' voice turned out loud and pure against demon voices – don't listen to these fuckin' monsters. It's all bullshit. We're Band of Hawk, the invincibles, and a bunch of crazy demons means completely nothing…

Griffith only closed his eyes, still screaming "NO, NO, NO" mutely. Guts pressed his iron mask to the chest, as they fell down among the fading, moaning faces, shrinking quickly and disappearing during the way down.

As they hit the ground, there were no more terrific faces underneath, just the normal grass. The sky cleared up, and the orange setting sun came out from behind the light cloud. A gentle wind blew at their faces, carrying the smell of blood and choir of hungry yells. Anyway, the danger not passed. The army of ravenous apostles were floundering through the lake, their eyes focused on two tiny figures, lying by the lake bank.

- Casca! – Guts yelled, pulling himself and Griffith both up – Take Griffith and flee! Gaston! Bring me a sword and a couple of men… We'll stop them… Everyone else must flee! Protect your commanders!

Griffith just heard a brief horse trump before somebody's hands slung him over the horse back, and the spurred steed hared off, carrying him away from subsiding Guts' yells.

- Guts… take your way back soon – he heard Casca's whisper, as her hand grabbed his shoulder to keep him in place. He dared to open his eyes, and now watching the ground running below. "He will", thought Griffith "of course he will".

* * *

Casca wiped her lips with a hand, and pleased silently if it could be the last time. The least tides of nausea seemed to decline. She crawled across the dark tent towards the table, and gulped a few sips of beer from the pitcher, than fell on her pallet back, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, tossing and turning, but it was a futile try. Now, after another fit, it was impossible.

She got up insecurely and went toward Griffith's pallet. She used to do it every time she had problems with sleeping, which were quite often last time. She rearranged his dirty blanked, and the jagged scarf covering his face. As the summer begun, she and Judeau decided that the iron hawk-shaped mask must be replaced with something else. It was too hot, too heavy and simply unhealthy to wear, but Griffith refused showing his face. Casca understood him. Somebody who was that beautiful once must became hard affected by that kind of affliction.

She sat nearby, and stroked the blanket thoughtfully. Judeau's words turned out more true than she ever suspected; Griffith still wasn't able to stand up nor grab anything heavier than a spoon (he had a little ability of moving with his thumbs). The most of time he was just lying down in the wagon and looking away at something distant on the horizon through the uncovered rear, his stare empty and cold. Casca and Judeau were doing their best to encourage and comfort him, but the truth was cruel; the Hawk was down, and didn't seemed to fly again. Everyone knew about it, but nobody found it proper to say it loud, that now Griffith was only a burden to his people. They still saluted and called him "commander", though he was no longer able to speak any command. His former role came over to Judeau's hands. The Hawks were just outlaws now, though they still needed money, so the former heroes of Midland were now robbing the merchant hearses and taking occasional commissions from impoverished nobles. Griffith wasn't even unnecessary now; his presence among them was merely troublesome. He required constant care and safety, and was great bother to them, especially now, while they were still on the run. Luckily, if it could be named like that, Casca took the duty of taking care of him on her own.

But she also had her own concerns. She took another sip of beer to wash the bitter taste off her tongue, and felt a light dizziness. It was another morning which greeted her with a fit of vomits. Moreover, it was nearly second month passing without bleeding. She recalled Guts, and their short, but fateful sparing. The light shudder came down her spine.

Guts haven't join them after the eclipse. Casca thought that they could have fled too far; after they had slipped away from all that madness, the Hawks didn't stop on a briefest repose for about three days, until horses had strength to run. The idea of Guts getting lost wasn't that impossible. Casca sighed heavily, and decided to try to repose once more. She didn't want to think about it anymore. For tomorrow, for a week… maybe one day it's gonna be alright. She listened intently to Griffith's steady breath, as she fell back asleep on her pallet.

* * *

- You sure you don't need any help? – Judeau's face was evincing unusual concern. He rubbed his cheek, embarrassed.

- It's ok, Judeau – said Casca calmly, playing with a strand of hair and staring on some distant point on the blue sky. Her voice was plain and emotionless – driving me to the town would be nice enough.

Judeau glimpsed at her, but looked away after a moment. He didn't remember to feel such a sadness for a… years? No, perhaps longer. Why they have to sever on such a nice day of early summer, bright and sunny? And why Casca have to look that beautiful, thoughtful and sad? He tried not to think about it. The Band of the Hawk required strong ringleader, and definitely didn't required the pregnant woman and the cripple. He had to think logically.

Casca told him about her condition about a month ago, and their decision about her departure appeared short time later. "I would have more time to look after Griffith", she said. That was strong argument, concerning Griffith's declining health which nobody has time nor abilities to deal with, and Judeau can't deny that it was right decision. Three days ago, when the Hawks encamped in neighborhood of some quiet port town, Casca told him about a nice, small cottage for sale she heard about from local villagers. It was off the beaten track, so nobody would find two outlaws there, and Griffith would have good conditions for recovery. And for a mother with baby, it was also important to settle down in place where nobody's gonna interrupt.

"She looks good in long hair", he thought briefly, and stand up while the packed-up wagon appeared on the road in front of them. He offered Casca a hand, and help her up.

- Take good care – he embraced her gently, having a light stroke on her hair – of you and Griffith. I'll be visiting you every possible time.

She reciprocated the hug, and after a while took a place on the box next to Pippin. She waved to Judeau with blank expression.

- I'll be all right. Have no fear, Sir – she smiled briefly, and laid the hand over her round midsection. Judeau was looking at the departing wagon till it disappeared completely behind the low green hill, although he haven't move back towards the camp even longer.


	2. Chapter 2

The Crimson Behelit has always make Griffith feel safe.

He barely remembered days before it came to his hands, to be honest.

He was living in the dirty little brothel in downtown, born as another useless bastard to maintain, among many other children that were only by-product of whore profession of their mothers. He hardly remembered his own, a young girl with brown curly hair. They shared the bed together. It was the only troop for him to think that she was his mother – she rarely has been playing with him nor talking anything to him. He had no memories of days spent with her, only the cold and winding nights she had been embracing him through and singing quiet lullabies, caring not to wake other whores and their children in the chamber up.

She had probably died young, because Griffith had to change his warm bed to a paltry pallet on the cold ground in an attic as a very young boy. There were many other children, orphans like him mainly, sleeping on the floor beside, so it wasn't that bad – at last the piercing chill from below was repressed to some point by other small bodies, fidgeting and crying around. He didn't remember longing for his mother nor stench of dirty blankets, nor bites of fleas, nor children cries not allowing him to sleep as well, as the choking fear, taking his breath away, making his eyes and throat clench. There were hundreds things to fear and he couldn't figure out, which one was the main – fear of the dark? Of monsters, lurking around in shadows? Of hunger, his well-known (obtrusive, better to say) companion, he shared every day with, playing into the same boring "beggar game" all the time? Some of his comrades had lost this game, and moved away to the graveyard, into the common grave of nameless "little angels". So Griffith feared. Or maybe it was fear of future? Of wearisome vegetation lined with the familiar misery, different from it only by being even more grievous year after year, to the petty end? Probably yes, petty end was the nightmare haunting him the most.

"_One day, in exchange for your flesh and blood, you shall conquer the world, young mister". _

Recalling these words, Griffith felt save. When his hand have been grasping the strange red pendant, he was instantly feeling stronger. In some desperate way of an orphan with the perspective of being – at best – a thief in the future, he believed the old fortuneteller. He wondered sometimes, why behelit came into his hands exactly – could he been some kind of… chosen one? He knew he was different, but how far? Could it be true, to get out of all this hell because of this little smile of fate? What with his comrades – were they fated to rot down here, as whores and thugs, and nothing could stop it? Are there more these… behelits on the world, and every holder is made to become great king? Maybe if everyone has one, there would be no misery on the world?

"But there is one", thought the young boy with white hair. "There is one, like the king is one, and if I can't take my friends to the castle with me…I won't. But I'll at least help them fulfill their own little dreams, in exchange to leading me up to the castle".

Sometimes he was sure that behelit's eyes snap open from time to time, and its little mouth tries to whisper something. Other children were afraid of the strange toy. They said it was cursed, actually. But Griffith knew that he was different, better, and things that were horrible for normal people, could be righteous and proper for him. So his fears were disappearing, when his pale-blue eyes were meeting behelit's yellow ones.

* * *

- Hello, young mister – Griffith tried to open his glued eyes as somebody's hand pulled the covers off him, but it was too much effort. In fact, he felt too weak to breath as deep as he wish. He was surprised that his heart had still enough strength to beat.

- You don't feel well, I see – he heard an old woman's voice, and felt cold fingers upon his ribs – You seen better days, right? Can you sit up?

Griffith pulled all his remaining strengths together, and shake his head weakly. He was very cold, though whole his body was dripping wet. He coughed, and heard the nearly unfamiliar sound of his own voice, hoarse and harsh. His lungs throbbed with a dull pain.

- Poor boy – he heard a muffled voice from above, and the knotty but strong hands elevated him a bit up – no, sweetheart, you don't have to help me. You mustn't making efforts now, in your state. Tell me please, how long has he been doing that wrong?

- I… don't know… - Casca's voice was quiet and resigned – about three weeks ago he was quite ok, but then… It's worsening continually. Please, Grandma, tell me, what I should do?

Griffith felt the cold fingers running on his ribs again.

- To be honest, sweety – he heard hesitation in old woman's voice – you both are starved. I know that it's not easy to earn the money for two as a young, pregnant girl without any husband nor family, but the only way to heal this boy, is to feed him. You have more vitality, because you can walk, you breathe on fresh air, and you still have a baby under your heart to keep you strong. He's in, let's say, worse position. I can serve your friend some restorative cordial, but it would be nothing without the thing he needs the most; the nourishing, fresh food.

- But… I… I give him nearly every bite of bread which come to my hands…

Cold hands traveled up Griffith's motionless body, and opened his jaw decidedly.

- Look – the voice grown cold eve more than the skinny fingers – He's incapable to bite your begged bread, lass. To keep him alive, you must find some way to get more food. And better food. You can't feed him only with bread crusts soggy in beer! If you do, he won't survive next week. Realize girl… - Griffith heard Casca's quiet sobbing, and grandma's voice, warm and encouraging again – life's not easy, especially for us. Don't cry, sweetie, all is not lost. I can give you a mug of milk for this young mister every day, I won't get poor on it. But remember, taking care of somebody is always your choice. I can help, but it is and will always be your burden only.

Griffith tried to lift his hand and find crying Casca's arm to touch, but he had no strength left.

* * *

The cool, night wind blew tears out of Casca's eyes. She looked up, and tried to stop another tide of sobbing. She felt awful, and the fact of her crying had only worsen her fettle. How could she been that naïve to think, that taking care of Griffith would be easier without Judeau and rest of Hawks?!

Among them, she didn't have to care about money, at last. And the money turned out one of the most needed thing now, when she had the house and crippled friend to maintain on her own. For whole her life, Casca has been making a living by fighting for money as a mercenary. It was the only thing in which she felt brilliant, and in the past she wasn't even thinking of anything else to do for earning money. But now? Even if some freak would choose a pregnant woman to fight for him, what with Griffith? Wasn't it the idea of taking care of him for a whole days which made her leave the Hawks after all? She couldn't leave him alone for longer than few hours now, so she has usually been doing to steal something in town or beg under the church for any alms. Even then she was continually afraid, that something wrong could happen to Griffith. Especially now, when he was burning in fever for past two weeks, with no strength to even open his eyes, and the local healer told Casca, that he may die on the nearest days.

And what will happen, when the baby will get born? Maintaining two helpless people, completely dependent on her, only by begging and stealing, will be impossible.

Casca wiped tears from the face, exhaled loudly, and stand up. There must be some way for her to earn the proper amount of money…

Suddenly, she felt like somebody's poured the bucket of freezing water down on her head. There WAS a way… and she knew this way very well. Casca was amazed, that it came to her head that late. She came back to the quiet house, and sat by Griffith's bed head for a while. She stroked the silver hair gently, now stringy with sweat.

- Stay strong, Griffith – she whispered – tomorrow we'll have money for food. I swear. I won't let you die.

* * *

Sometimes Griffith was asking himself, if there was any sense left in waiting for Guts coming back. So many days passed, and Casca hadn't said a single word about him. Sometimes Griffith was watching the winged sword emblem, crossed by the sabre on the wall, and wondering if it all was only the strange illusion. The castle, the white horse, his invincible mercenary band… and Guts, his best friend. Was it whenever real? Or was it only a dream? He used to sleep a lot now, so it was very possible. The emblem could be only the decoration, stolen by Casca from some noblemen yard to comfort him a little in his loneliness, and so like the sabre. It would be… funny. If it turned out, that he was waiting every day for a man who had never exist.

But sometimes his eyes were glimpsing a small grey pendant hanging on the sideboard's handle, and the memories of this day when Guts left him were coming back. He remembered that it was red one day, but it faded and died, as he refused sacrificing Guts. It was the best prove, that Guts existed, and Griffith regretted, that it was out of his reach still. He would love to touch it again, and recall the old days gone by. He remembered, that it was always making him feel stronger. He was curious, if it would work the same now.

Some movement at the door. Griffith hardly opened his eyes. "Guts", he thought involuntarily "could it be you… at least?".

No, it was Casca, as usual, coming back from the day of begging and stealing. Griffith sighed quietly, and closed his eyes back. Anon Casca will carry him to the table, cover his legs with the same dirty blanked he used to sleep under, and feed him with some kind of pulp, made of bread and… something else, nevermind, with the only thing he can swallow now. Luckily, without the tongue it was hard to feel any taste of this slurry. Sometimes he could sense the smell of mold anyway.

But today Casca looked… different. Tired. And… sad? Maybe even distraught. Griffith frowned to focus his sight better on her frame. Yes, today Casca's look has got something hopeless in itself. Maybe this… make up? Or… the dress?!

Casca came closer, and smiled sorrowfully.

- I bought meat, Griffith. And rice, and potatoes, and butter. I swear, that I won't lead you to this condition anymore. I'm… sorry… - her voice broke, and she hide her face in hands – I won't… let you die… I…

Griffith felt something like stings of remorse, because the only thing in his mind now, was still Guts and his persistent absence.


End file.
